"So you'll be in tonight? Wonderful, sweetie.
It's been far too long. Are you bringing Mattie?
Oh, I see. Are Todd's parent's good to her?
Alright, well, I love you and I'll see you at six.
Sorry seven...okay, sevenish."

The Prine place smelled of rich
lemon cleaner.
Not a cobweb could be found,
nor ***** dish, nor glass smudge.

Margaret Prine applied her blood red
lipstick--the final touch before school.

Mrs. Prine arrived thirty minutes before
anyone else, started the coffeepot in
the teacher's lounge, and wrapped up some
lesson plans.

The starting bell sounded,
she headed for her room.
Principal Hughes said,
"Good morning! Madam Margaret!"
as he always did.
Mrs. Prine, nodded cooly, grinned
lightly at the corners of her blood
red lips, and said nothing--as she always did.

At forty-five, she could turn more heads
than any head cheerleader,
and she was well aware
that beauty's power reigns
absolute.

Two young lovers draining saliva
stood outside her classroom door
dressed in matching yellow t-shirts.

"Excuse me, canaries.
Showboat your love out in nature.
Not outside my room," Mrs. Prine snipped,
calm like a seasoned surgeon.

"We're sorry--" Harvey's eyes met Mrs. Prine's.
Mrs. Prine felt a strange transfusion take hold.
The blackness started at her spine
and snaked to her skull.
Old jealousy, been awhile.

"Kaitlyn, Harvey, get to class."
Kaitlyn Mullens barely existed.
Pencil thin, thought little, and spoke less.
Kaitlyn just happened to be in Mrs. Prine's
literature class.
Mrs. Prine followed her into the room--
sizing up her shoulders, ***, and cheapshit heels
with a keen eye.

"Alright, everyone as you know, your analysis
on Catcher in the Rye motifs is due today.
No excuses."

During her lecture she couldn't keep her eyes
off Kaitlyn. The way she fidgeted incessantly;
shifted her gaze with each question asked.
Her idiot face somehow held a superior wisdom.
The dark jealousy coupled itself with
a wicked wandering mind.
A mind journeying into
the mad middle stage,
when a prime lioness
becomes declawed by calendars
and withering mirrors.

When the class left,
Mrs. Prine could not recall a single thing
she had lectured over.
She rubbed her head, sighed a low growl,
and began siphoning through the homework.
"Ah, there you are."
She grabbed a bleeding red ink pen,
then proceeded to massacre the essay.
"Plagiarism, plagiarism. Lazy, lazy."

The trees overlapped
overhead creating a warm
cloister.
Harvey's car cooed past
the vibrant green
and sputter-stopped
at the plastic, fishhead
mailbox.
He drove up the grey gravel drive,
hopped out of his car and
with eager stride
headed toward
the door of the widow Prine.
"Hello, Harvey," Mrs. Prine
greeted from behind the screen
in her always-sugary-hushed tone.

"Hey, Mrs--I mean hello, Margaret."

"Haha, you remembered this time.
C'mon in, sweetie."

Harvey's steps matched gentle creaks
in wooden floor.
Pictures of Mrs. Prine's
three children lined the walls.

"That's Mattie, Cindy's baby. My first grandbaby,"
Mrs. Prine beamed.

"She's a cutie."

"Well thank you," Mrs. Prine picked up
some magazines lying on the couch,
"feel free to sit here. Can I get you something to drink?
Some wine, maybe? It's a red."

"Sure, sure. Sounds good."

Mrs. Prine stepped into the kitchen,
as the evening news played at a barely
audible volume.

"Oh Lord. I forgot to put the wine in the
fridge, Harvey."

"That's okay, Mrs. Prine. I can--"

"Margaret."

"Margaret, I can drink it warm."

"How about some ice cubes?"

"That works too."

Mrs. Prine's husband died
driving an 18-wheeler,
six-miles outside of Dallas
two or three years ago.
One of the few times
a sedan won a war
against a big engine.

Her cheek bones
jutted sharply from
her face,
deep crimson lipstick
and light eyeshadow
emphasized her
few deep wrinkles,
as if she wore them
with pride.

They sat sipping lukewarm
red wine, saying nearly nothing--
touching only during commercial
breaks.

When the news ended,
Mrs. Prine grabbed Harvey's hand,
led him to the bedroom,
filled with pictures of her and her husband.

The love they made--
textbook in its precision,
light in its passion--
finished chapter,
Harvey reached for his cigarettes.

"Sweetie, please don't smoke in here."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Margaret."

Harvey stared at her old life's relics,
wrapped his arm around her,
pulled her naked flesh against his,
a summer breeze crawled through
open window,
and Harvey said,

"So, tell me more about your husband."

Mrs. Prine smiled, brushed her hair
out of her eyes,
and with a retrospective sigh,
she began.

"Did you want to smoke that cigarette?"
Mrs. Prine asked as she covered her skin
in a black velvet nightgown.

"That'd be good. Just to be outside."

"Right. It's pleasant this evening."

Harvey climbed out of the sweat-drenched
sheets, slid into his jeans, tossed on a t-shirt,
and stumbled behind the widow Prine.

The field behind Mrs. Prine's home
stood tall -- a rich green sea, with
islands of yellow dandelions and
splatters of Indian paintbrushes.

The two sat down in the tall field.
Mrs. Prine closely watched Harvey's
moves.
Her eyes followed him with
gentle observation and understanding--
much like his own mother.

A cloud of dust perpetually hung over
the Prine place.

Mr. Prine chose the abode
to escape the hum of cars and exhaust-teeming air,
but his reconnaissance was poor.

Mr. Prine picked a house that was less than a mile
from Kiev, Oklahoma's hidden gem:
Sugar's Sweethearts.

Sugar's Sweethearts prided itself on being
the only ******* in 50-miles.
The girls were much older than young,
the ******* suffered from much more sag than they did once,
and the bar sold nothing
but light beer and throat-dicing whiskey.

"I think Cindy is going to live with me for awhile," Mrs. Prine's voice whispered then dissolved in vapor. Harvey sat on her words a moment,

"Your daughter?"

"Yes."

"I thought she just had a kid. You acted like it was all fine and dandy
less than an hour ago."

"It is fine. I don't mind. Her husband cheated on her. *******."

"What about--"

"Us? Harvey, I know better than to believe this means anything remotely tangible."

"It's our escape, Mrs. Pri--******--Margaret."

"Sure. You and I have a healthy understanding of our needs,
while the rest of this overly-religious town
empties its restlessness at Sugar's."

The suns rays bulletholed through the clouds.
Harvey put out his cigarette on an anthill.
An interstate of ants led Harvey's eyes to
a dead blue jay.
Flies and ants alike covered the bird's body.

"I love you, Margaret," Harvey got up,
dusted off his jeans,"See ya Monday."

"I'll see you then, Harvey."